The ABC Friends
by Tam Lynne
Summary: Poor naive Combeferre on his first day in Paris . . .


Disclaimer: I do not own les Amis, or Gavroche, although this is not for lack of trying.  However, I take full credit for teaching Gavroche poker.

The ABC Friends

            Henri Combeferre was confused.

            "Wait a second," he said slowly, "I don't understand.  How did I lose that hand?"

            The eight-year-old sitting across from him smiled innocently and began ticking off fingers.  "Well, it's a Tuesday," he said, "so aces are low, eights are wild, and the person to the left of the dealer has a handicap on fours and kings.  Then, because it's March, sevens are doubled, queens are tripled, and jacks are reduced to one-fourth of the percent of the value of all the other cards in the hand divided by twenty-six, but today is the seventeenth, so -"

            "Never mind," said Combeferre with a sigh, and handed over another five francs.  He wasn't quite sure how he had lost half the money he had come to Paris with on the first day, especially to an opponent whose head was barely visible above the tabletop, but he supposed things were different in Paris.  

            Gavroche grinned and slid down from the bar stool, deftly snatching Combeferre's ale as he left.  "Good luck in Paris, m'sieur," he said brightly. 

            "Wait -"  Through a mildly alcoholic fog, Combeferre remembered the reason he had come to Paris in the first place.  "Can I ask you a favor?"

            "Will I get paid for it?"

            Combeferre smiled drily.  "That ale cost me ten sous – consider that your payment."

            The urchin shrugged philosophically.  "Fair enough.  What's your question?"

            "I'm looking for a group -"  Combeferre struggled to remember the name.  "I was told to look them up in Paris, that they'd help further my teaching career – Dieu, the name's escaping me – something about the alphabet – the alphabet friends -"

            "Oh, your _teaching _career," said Gavroche, with a knowing wink.  "You've come to the right man, m'sieur.  I know my way about this place, I do.  You want Enjolras' gang."

            "Enjolras' gang?"  Combeferre frowned.  That didn't sound quite right . . .

            "Yeah – Les Amis de l'ABC.  You're in luck today – there's not many as would be able to take you to them.  I, however, just happen to be a partic'lar friend of M. Enjolras . . ."  Gavroche smiled cherubically.  "But I do find myself a bit busy today.  Got to get me dad out of jail, got to do some housekeeping around me elephant . . . I'm just not sure if I'll have the time . . ." 

            Combeferre sighed and flipped him a coin.  "Will you take me there?"

            "Anything for someone who plays cards like you do," said Gavroche cheerfully, as the coin mysteriously vanished, presumably to join the twenty francs Combeferre had already lost.  "This way, M'sieur.  We're going to the Café Musain."

            A few minutes later, Combeferre found himself in the back room of a café, filled with young men shouting, complaining and drinking.  This made them easily recognizable as students.  Actually, there were probably only about five of them, but each of them was making enough noise for four times that number.  Combeferre, who had sobered up a bit during the urchin's-eye-view tour of Paris, cleared his throat politely.  "Excuse me?"

            He went, of course, completely unheard.

            Realizing that he was not going to achieve anything that way, Combeferre switched tactics.  Going up to the man who seemed to be the quietest, he tapped him on the shoulder.

            The man blinked at him blearily.  "Huzzat?"

            "Excuse me," said Combeferre, "but these are les Copains de l'ABC, are they not?"

            "N'me," said the man.  "'M not subscribin'.  'M a – a – wazza word?"

            "Drunk?"

            "Cynic!" said the other happily.  "'M a cynic.  Officially.  More cynical than Judas, poor bastard, 'n we all know what _he_ went through.  All for thirty sorry little coins.   Handful o'tin.  Wouldn't buy his sweat."

            "Indeed," said Combeferre, and went over to the next person, a bright youth flirting easily with a bubbleheaded blonde grisette.

            "Excuse me, I hate to interrupt," said Combeferre, "but do you belong to a group called the ABC?  Only I was told to come here -"

            The bright youth turned around and smiled broadly.  "Hold up a sec," he said, then turned around again and shouted, "Enjolras!  Hey, Enjolras!  New recruit!"

            Gavroche had mentioned Enjolras.  Combeferre, interested, turned to look at him.  Young, blonde, extremely intense-looking.  Combeferre wondered exactly what his position was.

            "Hullo," he said, politely, as Enjolras hurried over.  "I'm Henri Combeferre -"

            "Do you see the oppressed in the streets every day?" interrupted Enjolras.  "Have you seen the suffering of the downtrodden lower classes, downtrodden under the heel of the bourgeois?"  He grabbed Combeferre's shoulder, and stared intently into his eyes.  "Have you _seen_ the suffering of the starving children, forced to live hand-to-mouth, without a home, without a friend?"

            "You mean like the one who just took all my money?" said Combeferre.  "Then, yes.  But -"

            "Oh," said the bright youth, "you've met Gavroche, then."

            "How am I supposed to make brilliant speeches and rally the people to our cause," snapped Enjolras, "if you keep interrupting me, Courfeyrac?"  He turned back to Combeferre.  "If I may go on -"

            "You can speechify later," said Courfeyrac.  He held out a hand cheerfully.  "Sorry for not introducing myself earlier – Fortun Courfeyrac.  The drunk one is Davet Grantaire and the scribbling one is Jean Prouvaire, and that's the sum total of our merry band – all save our Fearless Leader, Guifford* Enjolras, of course.  We used to have more, but two-thirds of the original recruits quit because of exams.  And, hopefully, now we'll have you, since you seem interested in joining."

            "Wait -" said Combeferre.  "There's only four people in the entire Paris Teacher's Guild?"

            Courfeyrac and Enjolras looked at each other, and then back at Combeferre. 

"Teacher's Guild?" said Courfeyrac. 

"Yes," said Combeferre.  "Aren't you Les Copains de l'ABC?  The Paris Teacher's Guild?"

"I don't know who told you that," said Enjolras stiffly.  "We're Les _Amis_ de l'ABC, and we want to overthrow the oppressive government, bring justice and liberty to all, and bring down judgment on the swells who run this show." 

"It's a pun," said Courfeyrac helpfully.  "ABC – abaissé – get it?"

"The Friends of the Oppressed," said Combeferre, with a sigh.  "Yes, I see."  He promised himself privately that if Gavroche ever showed up in his classroom, pacifist or no pacifist, he was going to give the boy a – well, a _very strict _talking-to, and perhaps some pamphlets to improve his moral fiber.  "Well, then.  I'm sorry to have wasted your time, messieurs – if you could perhaps tell me where I might find Les Copains de l'ABC, I'll be off -"

Enjolras looked shocked.  "You mean you're just going to _abandon _the glorious cause?"

Combeferre shuffled guiltily.  "Well – I wasn't exactly looking to get involved in a -"

"What our Fearless Leader is trying to say," interrupted Courfeyrac, "is that we're looking for new members, and, all told, you seem a decent sort of chap, and we'd like it very much if you join up.  You can even be second-in-command, if you like – nobody will ever take us seriously if we don't have one, and our old one just got thrown in jail for giving a policeman funny looks while eating a suspicious-looking loaf of bread."

Combeferre blinked.

"In any case," continued Courfeyrac hastily, "I know we may not look like much, but we're quite nice when you get to know us.  Just make soothing comments about Prouvaire's poetry and keep your ale out of reach of Grantaire, and you'll be fine."

"Join in our crusade!" cried Enjolras, who didn't seem to be capable of talking in anything other than fiery and inspirational speeches.

Combeferre sighed.  "All right," he said.  "Count me in."  He had the strangest feeling that at some point he was going to regret this.  Still, if he didn't join, he suspected that Enjolras would end up burning down half of Paris with an excess of zeal.  When looked at in that light, it was practically his patriotic duty to join a revolutionary society plotting to throw down the government.

            "And that," said Combeferre, rather drunk, six months later, to a motherly serving maid in the Café Musain, "is how a nice boy like me ended up in a place like this."

* Guifford as a name means 'chubby cheeks'.  Hey, it amused me, all right?__


End file.
